


Divine Inspiration

by Arithanas



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers Series - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Churches & Cathedrals, Public Speaking, improvisation is not your friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: Or why M. d'Herblay rather sells his well-composed sermons to his colleagues.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Divine Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinlizzy2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/gifts).



> When I am in the pulpit, if by chance a pretty woman  
> looks at me, I look at her again: if she smiles, I smile too.  
> Then I speak at random; instead of preaching about  
> the torments of hell I talk of the joys of Paradise.  
>  _Twenty years after_ , chapter IX

René d’Herblay stood in front of the liturgical vestments and sighed. Preaching was not a particularly enjoyable task, but every priest must try his hand at it if only to keep the people from saying “you don’t understand the scriptures”. There was no use in delaying the inevitable...

His hands took the amice and kissed without thinking, as he was taught by example so many years ago. It covered the shoulders of his cassock for the most part, and René tied it with care, passing the strings under his arms and making an easily undoable bow below his ribs. He took the alb, kissed it again and put it over his clothes. All those layers would make any other man sweat, but there was a time when René d'Herblay was called Aramis and he had to wear even more layers of wool and metal to protect himself from enemy fire. 

His hands smoothed the whitened linen, and the sensation sent shivers down his spine of an indeterminate nature. The stole came next and René took his time to admire the intricate embroidery work—there were the Tables of the Law and the  _ Agnus Dei  _ with its pastoral cross and four angels kneeling in front of the other with startled expressions. René wondered if the old nun in charge of the embroidery had spent enough years in the cloister to forget how young men used to look.

After kissing the stole and crossing it in front of him, René secured it in place with the cingulum. The old prayers tumbled from his mouth in disarray; his mind was already rambling to the topics of eternal condemnation and perpetual punishment. The chasuble weighed heavily on René’s shoulders because all the crosses were stitches made of silver. It was almost time to be part of the procession.

It was an ordinary Sunday mass. René almost felt insulted to be invited to preach in such a date, but then, Christianly, he took it as a very deserved mortification for his youthful sins. The word evoked the memory of Marie Michon. Ah, her pretty, sinful soul was still hiding from her many enemies, but René missed the mischievous glint in her eyes. 

René d’Herblay went through the motions, as he usually did. Mass was a very dull task when you saw it from the other side of the communion rail. His eyes wandered, each time he moved to assist with the rites to the first lines. As usual, the rich pious of the city sat on their padded chairs while the unwashed masses stood on their feet. For a spiritual second, René wished he could care more for the villagers, but his eyes, accustomed to looking at the beauty, inevitably focused on the gorgeous daughters of the petty nobility.

Then, the dreaded moment arrived. René stood up, presented himself to the main celebrant, bowed to the altar and climbed up the steps to the pulpit and looked at them. His flock looked back, waiting to be comforted of the Eternal Love or be assured of the Torments of Hell. René put his hands on the rail and dithered.

The church was too silent; there were so many eyes locked on him. For the first time in years, that golden tongue so praised by Athos got stuck to René d’Herblay’s palate.

Then God sent him a ray of Divine inspiration in the form of a smile. The young, fresh face of the local count’s daughter was upturned and the corners of her mouth were lifted gracefully. René found himself smiling back. The brilliant sermon he had planned, so full of wisdom and learned quotes, vanished from his mind, and his tedious exegesis turned into impromptu preaching aimed to please the beautiful parishioner.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, John tells us,” René said and leaned a bit forward. His hand relaxed. “Indeed, His word had created a world of wonders. Among all those wonders, he made us.” 

Some of the people in the back turned to look at each other and René almost didn’t notice them. The pretty parishioner in the front line took out her fan to cover her mouth. She liked being called a wonder but she was too shy to show it in church.

“He made us in His image and likeness,” René continued and tried to make his eyes look at the rest of the congregation. “That’s why our words had so much weight. That’s why we should be careful. Our words penetrate each other’s souls.”

René d’Herblay noticed he had been looking at the young, pious lady when he mentioned the word ‘penetrate’ and she had had a bit of a start. Maybe it was time to address the rest of the church while he was at it.

“Words said in anger hurt us, because they offend the divine nature we are made of,” René stood still and looked at the back of the church. “Words of infamy brand the soul of those who utter them, especially if made with despicable contempt. Think hard, children of God, when you say ‘adulterer’, ‘thief’, ‘sinner’ because each injurious word you hurl to your brother will come back in the Day of Judgement!”

A rumor of approbation filled the small provincial church and René felt, for a moment, that he had a place assured in any list of approved preachers. Then his eyes fell again on the pretty parishioner. 

She was looking at him again, her face beamed with satisfaction, and the laces of her décolletage threatened to burst when her generous bosom, pushed forward with a satisfied sigh, strained the fabric.

“Fill your mouth with sweet words, my brothers,” René exclaimed and turned his eyes to the jewel God had given to this village. “Words that caress each other, perfumed with the garden most of us had already forgotten in the drudgery of our lives. Willingly give each other to the ecstatic communion of a love that knows no end…”

The rumor that filled the church was of a different nature. René knew that he had made another mistake. He turned his eyes to the old priest who had invited him to fill his pulpit. In his incensed eyes, René could read there were not any more invitations in the near future. 

“...The love of Jesus Christ, our savior!”

René could feel how his voice raised to that shrill pitch that haunted his younger years. That was the sound of panic. He couldn’t go forward. The tremulous  _ oremus _ fell from his lips and he climbed down, feeling his ears burning as much as his cheeks.

The rest of the mass was just a mirage - René couldn’t shake the fiasco of his improvisation and his chagrin must have been very noticeable. Despite all of this, he followed the procession at the end and found himself next to the old priest in the vestry. 

The priest took each piece of his vestment off with care and reverence and René imitated him because it was patently ridiculous to stand there wearing all the ceremonial robes. As soon as the last parament was properly folded and put away, the old priest let out gales of laughter that made the glasses on the window dance.

“Ah, my boy!” the priest exclaimed once he paused to take a breath. “You had better leave the improvisation for those blessed by the Spirit with the gift of tongues. You must endeavor to stick to the very detailed sermon you have crafted before.”

“It might be dull…”

“Probably,” the priest agreed, “but it certainly will be safe.”

“I shall give your words all due consideration, Father,” René replied a bit comforted because his preaching was not a total failure. “Now, please allow me to take a walk in the garden…”

“Go with God, my child.”

René d’Herblay sighed and turned around, his head throbbing with the imperious need of solitude, which was the supreme balm for all the injuries a human could stand. Ah, but it was not in his lot to be left alone. A choir boy approached him, pulled his sleeve and, without any comment, deposited in his hand a piece of paper. The piece of paper was folded coquettishly and it was perfumed to top it all. Time had passed since René d’Herblay was called Aramis, but eternity had not enough time to make him forget what a  _ billet-doux _ looks like.

There was no use in fighting against his nature. After all, poetry was his first love. 

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this fic wants to thank Rain, who heeded the hippo's call and beta'd this fic. Any remaining errors belong to the author.


End file.
